


he'll eat me up

by cottonclouds



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Alternate Universe - Sugar Daddy, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bisexual Richie Tozier, Bottom Eddie Kaspbrak, Definite Overuse of Pet Names, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Dominant Richie Tozier, Drinking, F/M, Famous Richie Tozier, Feminization, First Time, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, I Want That Twink Obliterated, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Infidelity, Kissing, M/M, Nipple Play, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Overstimulation, Praise Kink, Richie Tozier Has a Big Dick, Submissive Eddie Kaspbrak, Top Richie Tozier
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-15 08:09:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28560345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cottonclouds/pseuds/cottonclouds
Summary: Eddie Kaspbrak hates his wife. More than anything, he hates living in uptown suburbia working a nine-to-five to support her like he's eighteen again still stuck at his mother's house with her taking his checks and doling out less than half to him like some kind of fucked up allowance, only now he's traded pretending to be the perfect little straight son for pretending to be the perfect image of a straight husband, neatly-tucked polos and shorts swapped out for pressed suits and ties.Though, maybe itisn'tactually in his best interest to go all out and cheat on her with an older man and then decide to kind-of-sort-of become his sugar baby, but, well.There's a learning curve to everything.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Eddie Kaspbrak/Myra Kaspbrak, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 8
Kudos: 98





	he'll eat me up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Geez, what is your wife, a Roman dictator?”_
> 
> _Eddie snaps his head up to find, of_ all _fucking people, the shitty comedian—spinning back and forth on the barstool next to his like a bored toddler, nursing a half-empty rum and coke. He looks even worse than Eddie thought he might based on the jokes he was telling, in a gaudy floral-print Hawaiian shirt (an_ orange _one!) over a band tee covered in age-worn holes with a logo so faded you can no longer tell what band it was meant to advertise, anyway, finished by a pair of ripped acid-wash jeans and wily black curls pulled tight with a pink scrunchie into one of those obnoxious fucking man buns. And the worst part is, even though he_ looks _like a college dropout, there’s no way he’s younger than forty—a good ten years on Eddie, and he’s fucking dressed like_ that. _Jesus Christ. “Oh, I’m sorry, asshole. Is your wife an absolute treasure? The Queen of fucking England herself?” Eddie snaps once he finally thinks to respond, frowning angrily into his wine glass._
> 
> —
> 
> Eddie goes out for a drink and ends up cheating on his wife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, fun fact: this was only gonna be a oneshot. however, my beloved friend karako (@hotcocoalover on tumblr! they're great, give 'em a follow if you'd like) changed my mind from having richie & eddie go back to richie's hotel to have sex, because he was like, "that's creepy, they just met. fuck in the bathroom like normal people" and then i got a bunch of ideas, mostly because over the past several years, i've become incapable of writing sad endings in any form, even if they're just vague or bittersweet. so now it's multichapter! my first multichapter fic in a very, _very_ long time. if i missed any tags, feel free to tell me!
> 
> anyway, with the preamble finished, i hope you enjoy the first chapter of this fic! i really freaking hope it doesn't suck like i think it does.
> 
> [tumblr post](https://shortcqke.tumblr.com/post/639523503718170624/hell-eat-me-up-chapter-1-warm-cherry-wine-it)

Eddie knows that maybe, just _maybe_ , he shouldn’t be spending his Tuesday night at the bar.

He’d told Myra he needed to work late—some lie about a big project that he’s on a time crunch for, due in two days to his very strict, ill-tempered boss (who isn’t nearly as bad as he’s made her out to be for theatrics, rather, a petite blonde woman in her mid-fifties with a wife and two teenage daughters displayed proudly in the framed Christmas card on her desk, a stark contrast to the downturned wedding photo at Eddie’s own). Instead, he’s at the fancy bar down the block from his office, finishing off his second red wine with the sound of the shitty comedian performing there serving as irritating background noise. He’s telling some stupid joke about fucking his girlfriend that’s falling on deaf ears, though, the other people crowded together in the packed bar are laughing like he’s just told the funniest joke in the history of comedy.

Gross.

“Could I get another?” Eddie asks the barkeep when she finally comes bustling back his way, tipping his near-empty wine glass in her direction. He knows that he probably _shouldn’t_ have another, both because he needs to drive himself home and because he’s a lightweight, but he doesn’t want to stop at two. So he doesn’t.

“Sure thing, honey!” the bartender cheers, because it isn’t her job to tell drunks when they’ve had enough, it’s her job to serve drinks and make boring small talk. She clears Eddie’s empty wine glass away and fills a fresh one to the brim with their most expensive red, setting it down in front of him with a kind smile. He returns it with one of his own, closed and tight-lipped. It looks like she may have something to say, maybe the start of a mind-numbing conversation Eddie is less than willing to participate in, but someone at the bar’s opposite end raises their empty glass into the air and hollers for another gin and tonic before she can.

Eddie is relieved when the bartender gives him what looks to be an apologetic smile before rushing off to get the other person a new gin and tonic, right up until his phone rings. He unzips his fanny pack and fishes it out with a heavy sigh, anticipating a completely unwanted call from Myra, because he can’t escape her for even a single moment of solitude. She is his mother’s second coming, after all, from her sticky pink lipstick to the way she frets over his health, hand-feeding him pills that he doesn’t need. He has half a mind to send her right to voicemail, but if he doesn’t answer, there’s a chance she’ll call the police and send a search party out to find him. “Hello, Myra,” he greets tiredly, lifting his glass and downing half of the wine in one go.

“Eddie-bear!” Myra shouts, sniffling like she’s been crying. Eddie figures she probably has. All the better to emotionally manipulate him with, he thinks, just like his mother always did. “I’ve been calling for nearly half an hour! Where have you been? Why didn’t you answer me?”

Eddie closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, trying _very_ hard not to sigh. “I’m working, My. I told you, there’s a project due in two days that I can’t turn in late.”

“It’s so late, Eddie,” she sniffles pitifully, not even bothering to acknowledge a single thing Eddie has told her. “You should just come home now. Do you know how dangerous it is to drive on the highway late at night? And the weather report says it’s going to rain!”

“I’m working, Myra,” Eddie repeats. “If you’re that worried about me driving home, I’ll just sleep at the office.”

“At the _office_?” Myra gasps disbelievingly, as if Eddie had said he was going to sleep at a grimy brothel and not his neat, tidy work office. “Do you know what that’ll do to your back? And what about your pills, Eddie-bear? You need to take—”

“I have to go, Myra,” he cuts in. “I’ll see you later. I love you.”

“Eddie-bear—!”

Eddie hangs up before she can finish—or start, really—dropping his head tiredly to the wooden bartop after muting his phone and tucking it safely back into his fanny pack. He stares down at his favorite fuchsia loafers hanging over the bar’s spotless checkered floor and considers checking into a hotel for the night, just to get some time _away_ from Myra. He’d already told her that he would probably be staying over at the office, so she’d have no reason to worry about where he is or come searching for him, right? And he could sleep by himself in an expensive king-sized bed with silk sheets and a big, warm comforter…

“Geez, what is your wife, a Roman dictator?”

Eddie snaps his head up to find, of _all_ fucking people, the shitty comedian—spinning back and forth on the barstool next to his like a bored toddler, nursing a half-empty rum and coke. He looks even worse than Eddie thought he might based on the jokes he was telling, in a gaudy floral-print Hawaiian shirt (an _orange_ one!) over a band tee covered in age-worn holes with a logo so faded you can no longer tell what band it was meant to advertise, anyway, finished by a pair of ripped acid-wash jeans and wily black curls pulled tight with a pink scrunchie into one of those obnoxious fucking man buns. And the worst part is, even though he _looks_ like a college dropout, there’s no way he’s younger than forty—a good ten years on Eddie, and he’s fucking dressed like _that_. Jesus Christ. “Oh, I’m sorry, asshole. Is your wife an absolute treasure? The Queen of fucking England herself?” Eddie snaps once he finally thinks to respond, frowning angrily into his wine glass.

The shitty comedian throws his hands up in mock-surrender. “ _Asshole_. Not the first time I’ve heard that one,” he replies. “I’m divorced, thankfully. Just figured I’d ask since I’ve been sitting here for a good—” he pauses to check his watch. “Ten minutes, now, and your wife spent that entire time yelling at you. Is it because you’re out past your bedtime, kiddo?”

“Fuck you,” is all Eddie can think to say, because he’s tipsy and he’s _pissed_. “I’m thirty.”

“Thirty? Wow. Can I see some ID? Maybe a birth certificate?” the guy jokes, all smiles.

Eddie downs the last of his wine, positing the now-empty glass aside with a set frown. “No, asshole,” he snaps back. “You’re not as funny as you think.”

What Eddie figures is the guy’s knee-jerk reaction is a nod and sigh, like he gets told this all the time. Maybe he does. (Who’s Eddie kidding? He _has_ to, with the bits and pieces of jokes Eddie remembers hearing when he wasn’t actively trying to block the whole act out.) “So I’ve been told, chief. Mostly by my ex-wife. And lesbians," he acquiesces, like any of what he just said makes an ounce of sense. “No jokes, alright. What’s your name, then? Mine’s Richie.”

“Stop calling me dumb shit,” Eddie responds automatically, clipped and impolite. Not that he actually cares, especially when this _Richie_ guy is getting on nerves Eddie didn’t even know he had. He has half a mind not to give up his name at all, but it doesn’t seem like this guy plans on leaving him alone anytime soon and the bar is packed wall-to-wall, not a single stool, table, or booth left empty. Sure, Eddie _could_ just leave, but he doesn’t really want to. “I’m Eddie,” he ends up sighing, for lack of better options.

“Don’t sound so depressed about it, Eds,” Richie replies, grinning.

“Eddie.”

Richie taps his glass against the bartop twice, rattling the ice against the corners of the empty glass and getting the barkeep to come running. She looks remarkably frazzled—a lot worse for wear than Eddie remembers her being when he first came in, black camisole semi-untucked and white jean shorts covered in booze stains. “How’s bartending going for you, Bev? I distinctly remember you saying to Benny boy, ‘Of course I can handle it, Ben. How hard can it be?’”

The bartender—Bev?—scoffs, snatching Richie’s empty glass from his hand and replacing it with a new rum and coke without even asking what he’d been drinking. Eddie figures they must know each other pretty well. “Suck a dick, trashmouth,” she bites. Then, turning her attention to Eddie, “Is he bothering you, sweetie? He’s very talented at bothering people.”

“He isn’t bothering me,” Eddie lies.

“Now that’s just a blatant lie,” Richie snorts. “I’m _definitely_ bothering him, Bev, so would you be a dear and grab my darling Eds another of whatever he’s drinking on my tab?”

“My name is _Eddie_ ,” Eddie snaps back. “And don’t _ever_ call me your darling again. Seriously.”

Richie mock-pouts, lifting a hand to his chest in fake hurt. “Eds, you wound me. Not even when we start dating and fall passionately in love?”

“Are you crazy, Richie? Don’t wish something like that into existence, I don’t know how I’d cope,” Eddie replies, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips before he has the chance to stop it. “By the way—I’m still _Eddie_.”

“If you two are finished,” Bev interrupts. “You had red wine, right? The expensive stuff we keep on the top shelf?”

Eddie nods. Richie shouts, “ _Jesus_ , the expensive stuff they keep on the top shelf? You’ll bleed me dry!” to which Bev rolls her eyes, clearing Eddie’s empty glass away and replacing it with a new one after she manages to tug the bottle down from where it’s wedged into the corner of the highest shelf behind the bar, setting it in front of him with a kind smile that Eddie returns with one a bit less tight-lipped this time. Bev gives them both a parting wave and disappears into the crowd after, a serving tray and notepad in hand.

Richie turns out to actually be rather good company, though he mostly rambles on ad nauseam while Eddie nods along quietly, gradually drinking to finish his wine, trying to sober up for the incoming drive home. He’s apparently a famous comedian, though Eddie has never heard of him before (Myra’s doing, probably, because she has this _thing_ against social media and streaming apps—always afraid the government is tailing her or something equally as ridiculous, so Eddie uses an outdated flip phone and doesn’t watch much other than the news and Myra’s soap operas) and the only reason he was even performing here was as a favor to his friends Ben and Beverly, the bar’s owner and the bartender who waited on them, respectively, who are engaged to be married. Eddie is so focused on his conversation with Richie that by the time he even thinks to check his watch, the neon blue numbers blink _12:30_ back at him. “Oh, wow, it’s really late,” he says, topping off the last of his wine. “I should probably get going.”

“I can drive you,” Richie offers, grinning lopsidedly. “I mean—if you want me to, of course. I’m not going to, like, force you to go with me. That would be really creepy. I know I kind of look like I just crawled out of a trash can, but I’m not actually a sexual predator. Well, I mean, that’s probably something a sexual predator would say—”

“Richie,” Eddie interjects. “Stop talking. I’d love for you to drive me, thanks.”

“Great! Shit, great. I didn’t actually expect you to say yes,” Richie says. “I’m gonna go take a leak, and then we can go, alright?”

“If you say take a leak again, I’m going to change my mind."

Richie gives a two-fingered salute. “Understood, chief,” he replies, sliding off of his barstool and to the ground, weaving through droves of people to the bathroom. Eddie watches him go, anxiously tapping away at the side of his empty wine glass with well-manicured nails. He shakes his leg with barely contained nerves and, a bit hysterically, considers following behind Richie—considers cornering him in the bathroom and doing what he’s wanted to all fucking night, tug him down by the lapels of his stupid Hawaiian shirt and slide their lips together, warm and wet and _good_. Eddie knows that he’s a married man, really, he does, but more and more these days it’s starting to feel like he’s married to his own mother and not an entirely separate woman, and Richie is so fucking _hot_. Charming and funny and _big_ , broad and sturdy with a kind smile and warm blue eyes. Jesus, _fuck_.

“Oh, fuck it,” Eddie mumbles to himself, resolutely, shoving his wine glass away and hopping down from his own barstool to weave through the throngs of people and to the bathroom. He lays a hand over the door and looks around like Myra has suddenly materialized in the bar once he gets there, but she is, of course, nowhere to be found—so he shoulders the bathroom door open and clicks the lock shut behind himself.

Eddie is thankful he chose this specific bar, because it’s fancy and upscale, which means the bathroom is neat and tidy—all white tiled floors and marble countertops. Richie is washing his hands when Eddie drops his back against the door, breathing like he just ran a marathon. “Hi, Eds! Are you here to pee, too? Small world,” he jokes, either oblivious to Eddie’s anxiety or choosing to consciously ignore it. Eddie doesn’t even bother to berate him for using the nickname _Eds_ again, too busy trying to psych himself up to just _do_ something already. “You alright, right said Ed? You look—”

Eddie doesn’t give him the chance to finish. He takes three big steps to breach the gap between them and hauls Richie down by the lapels of his Hawaiian shirt, slotting their lips together in an almost-painful kiss. It goes on for barely a second before Richie pulls back, looking slightly dazed. “Jesus fucking shit, Eds,” he groans. “As hot as that was, you’re drunk and married, baby. I don’t want to take advantage of you. Like I said—not a sexual predator.”

“Shut the fuck up, Richie, why do you never shut your fucking mouth,” Eddie rambles. “I’m barely tipsy and I hate my fucking wife. You know I hate my fucking wife. I want _you_ to fuck _me_ , and if you don’t do it soon, I’m going to lose my fucking mind.”

“Go ahead and say fuck for me one more time, Eds,” Richie cracks.

“Richie, I swear to _God_ —”

“Alright, babydoll, alright,” Richie soothes. He looks and sounds serious enough, mouth set into an even line. “You’re sure? I mean, you’re a super fucking hot twinky spitfire, but I meant it when I said I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

“I’m _sure_ , Richie. God, I didn’t think getting you to fuck me would be such a damn chore,” Eddie gripes, fumbling to push Richie’s button-up off. Richie chuckles good-naturedly, shucking it from his shoulders and tossing it to the ground. Eddie scrunches his nose up. “Gross.”

“You’re the one who wants to get fucked so bad!” Richie protests, laughing.

“God, yeah, okay, yeah,” Eddie prattles in return, tugging his neatly-tucked shirt over his head and throwing it to the ground alongside Richie’s. He definitely isn’t a _fan_ of his clothes being on the ground, but he doesn’t really have the patience to fold them. Once their shirts are both pooled together on the tiled floor, Richie pulls Eddie into another kiss, guiding him up onto the tips of his toes with a warm palm spread across his lower back. Their lips slot together with a wet noise, Richie skating his tongue along Eddie’s bottom lip in what he assumes to be a question— _can I kiss you with tongue, Eds?_ —which Eddie answers with a resounding _yes_ , opening his mouth wider for Richie’s tongue. He slides his tongue wetly over Eddie’s, practically licking behind his teeth, and Eddie moans in the back of his throat, high and whiny.

“What a good boy,” Richie praises, and Eddie practically melts through the floor, fumbling to unbutton Richie’s pants. “I got it, baby boy, I got it,” he reassures, to which Eddie lets out a broken, hiccupping moan; and Richie gives a barely-there smirk, lips curling up just so, reaching down to pop the button of his pants open in one fluid motion and step out of them, repeating the process with Eddie’s own.

“ _Please_ fuck me, Richie, please,” Eddie huffs out, small hands curled tight around Richie’s shoulders, neatly-trimmed nails biting crescent moons into the pale skin.

“You don’t need to beg, Eds,” Richie replies, sounding just a tad hysterical, sliding his and Eddie’s underwear off and adding them to the growing pile of clothes on the floor. “I’ll fuck you, baby, I promise I’ll fuck you. Have you ever slept with a man before?”

“No, but I—” Eddie’s voice breaks before he can finish. “I—I have _toys_ ,” he stage-whispers, not only like Richie isn’t the only person in the bathroom with him but like they aren’t naked and practically pressed together head-to-toe.

“Oh? You like to play with your little hole, huh, baby?” Richie teases warmly, running his wet fingers over Eddie’s hole and fuck, _fuck_ , when did he get lube? _Where_ did he get lube? “I can tell, sweet thing. You’re all loose and sloppy. Have you ever even fucked your wife? Or do you just fuck yourself, riding silicone cocks like they’re the real thing when she isn’t around?”

“ _Jesus fucking_ —” Eddie puffs harshly, breaking in the middle when Richie finally stops teasing and slides his finger inside of Eddie to the second knuckle. Eddie cries out, digging his nails harder into Richie’s shoulders and clinging to him like a lifeline. “Richie, Richie, feels so good, fuck me so good—”

“I’m not even fucking you yet, sweetheart,” Richie says, smirking. “But I asked you a question, princess. And when I ask a question, I very much expect an answer,” and then he slides a second finger into Eddie without warning, curling them both up to graze his prostate in a barely-there touch that Eddie just _knows_ is on purpose.

“Q—qu—question?” Eddie stutters, looking up at Richie with tears in his eyes, wide and impossibly brown. _Doe-eyed_ , Eddie remembers the ladies in his mother’s book club cooing, saying that he’d always look like a doe-eyed little sweetheart with those big baby browns. Richie takes pity on him, smiling down at him in a way that feels both soft and demeaning at the same time in the most confusing of ways.

“Yeah, baby, question,” he repeats, brushing Eddie’s tears away with his free hand. “I asked you if you’ve ever even fucked your wife. If you just fuck yourself like a little whore, bouncing on fake cocks like they’re real while she isn’t around.”

Eddie moans softly at the words, wrapping an arm around Richie’s neck and tugging him down into a filthy kiss that he happily returns, lips sliding together noisily. When he pulls back, flushed and heaving, he finally answers, “I never fuck her, Richie. It’s wet and gross.”

Richie snorts. “Isn’t this wet and gross?” he asks, nosing against Eddie’s freckled cheek and gently sliding a third finger into him no further than up to the first knuckle. Eddie really does appreciate the tact and consideration for some of his most vital body parts, but they’re kind of on a time limit, locked up in the men’s bathroom at a packed bar and all—so he arches back into Richie’s touch as hard as he can, making his fingers slip just a fraction further into Eddie’s hole and involuntarily pushing them up against his prostate. He bites his lip bloody to stifle the scream that threatens to pour out, winding his fingers into the curls at the bottom of Richie’s neck that have come free from his stupid fucking man bun. Richie gets the message clear as day, evidently, sliding his fingers as far into Eddie as they’ll go and curling them up, up, _up_ , until they’re pressed to his prostate with clear purpose.

“Different,” Eddie finally mumbles in response to Richie’s question, remembering, hazily, that he said he expects answers to his questions. Foggy and hot from the inside out, Eddie pulls Richie close by the back of his head to ask, warm against his lips, “You gonna fuck me, Richie? You gonna fuck me like I fuck myself on my toys? Give it to me good, hard?”

“Fucking Christ on a holy cracker,” Richie replies, swooping in to give Eddie a kiss softer than their others. He figures it’s probably meant to be a reassurance— _this is all a sex thing, Eds, I don’t mean what I’m saying and I won’t hurt you_ —but all it does is make Eddie think, frantic and halfway to hysterical: _oh fucking_ no _, do I actually_ like _this fucking guy?_ “Yeah, princess, I’m gonna fuck you. Give it to you good and hard, fuck you ‘til you’re crying, just how you want—whatever you want,” Richie prattles on nonsensically, spreading his fingers apart in Eddie’s hole. Eddie full on _whines_ when he pulls them out, high and drawn and loud, tugged hard from the very back of his throat. “Don’t worry, baby, I’m not going anywhere. I just need to get the condom, okay?”

“Fine,” Eddie grumbles, petulant, keeping an arm wrapped firmly around Richie’s shoulders while he bends down to grab a condom from the back pocket of his discarded jeans. Eddie fleetingly considers teasing him for keeping a condom in his pocket, like he’s a sleazy college kid who expects to be fucking girls in the bathroom at trashy parties, but he thinks better of it—or, really, doesn’t think at all, brain too syrup-sticky to come up with a proper insult.

Richie leans away from Eddie to unwrap the condom and slide it on, moving from crowded into Eddie’s space to just at arm’s reach, leaving him to curl his fingers over Richie’s shoulder and dig his tidy little nails _in_ , breaking new crescents into the pale skin. “ _Jesus_ , why is your dick so fucking _big_ ,” Eddie whines when he looks down to watch Richie slick himself up, bordering on a genuine complaint.

Richie huffs a laugh, rejoins on the tail end of it, “All the better to fuck you with, my dear,” and hefts Eddie up by the back of his thighs, propping him against the bathroom wall and folding his legs up to his chest, carefully sinking into him to the first inch. Eddie reacts all the same, throwing his head back with so much force that it cracks against the wall in back of him and echoes right through his skull, leaving behind an unpleasant ringing in his ears. “Fuck’s sake, Eds, you okay?”

“Okay,” Eddie confirms, choked. “Fuck me.”

“You sure? I mean, you like—”

“ _Fuck. Me,_ ” Eddie grits out.

“Baby’s got demands, huh?” Richie teases, falling easily back to dominant from worried and doting, pressing forward another agonizing inch. Eddie moans at the stretch, the _burn_ , because he may have his little Tupperware container of toys at home, tucked into the empty spaces between vacuum-sealed clothing where Myra will never think to look—but he’s never actually been fucked before, not like this; and Richie is big and unrelenting, sliding in another few inches without minding the burn. It’s what Eddie demanded he do, after all. “Is that what you wanted from me, princess? Wanted me to fuck you hard and rough and _mean_?” and Richie is practically sneering by the end, digging his thick fingers into the soft give of Eddie’s tan thighs.

“Yes, yes, yes,” Eddie chants wetly, reaching his arms out for Richie only to find them blocked by his own legs. He drops his head back into the wall, making a vaguely miserable-sounding noise high in the back of his throat. “Richie, please let me touch you, wanna touch you, _please_!”

Richie hums soothingly. “Alright, baby. Since I’m feeling generous this time, I’ll let you touch me,” he acquiesces, taking his hands off of Eddie’s thighs and letting them drop down to bracket his hips. Eddie automatically throws his hands around Richie’s neck and pulls him in for another kiss, lips sliding together slick and warm while Richie presses the last few inches into him, the words _this time this time this time_ playing on loop in his head. Richie slides his tongue over Eddie’s bottom lip one last time before pulling back to spill out, “You’re so pretty, babydoll. Such a good, sweet, pretty boy. Can I move? Is it okay if I move, princess?”

“Yeah,” Eddie sighs, lilty and amiable, winding his fingers up into the loose curls at the bottom of Richie’s neck. Richie noses sweetly at Eddie’s cheek, smiling softly into his warm, heat-red tan skin; the entire thing sickly saccharine and a stark contrast to the way he slides himself fully out of Eddie’s hole and knocks back in all at once, hard and sudden and _aching._ Eddie’s throat breaks painfully over a wail, definitely too loud for being stuck having sex in the bathroom of a packed bar, back nearly arching into a perfect half-circle and fingers going taut where they’re curled around Richie’s dark hair. “Oh, _fuck_ , Ri— _chie_ ,” Eddie cries, all but sobbing as Richie starts up a brutal pace, unshed tears beading on Eddie’s lashes where they fan against his freckled cheeks. “Please, please, _please_!”

“ _Please_ , what?” Richie teases, grinning as he bites down around one of Eddie’s nipples, earning him another wail and small fingers digging into the meat of his shoulders. “What could you possibly want, Eds? I’m already fucking you.”

“Touch me,” Eddie whines, frustrated. “Wanna come!”

“I _am_ touching you, princess,” Richie continues, faux-oblivious, running the tips of his fingers gently over Eddie’s peaked nipples and down to the soft give of his flared hips. So _close_ to where Eddie wants, almost almost _almost_ but _not quite_ , and he finally does start to cry, hot tears spilling over his already too-warm cheeks like a brand. “Aw, baby,” Richie coos, but Eddie knows his remorse isn’t genuine by the crooked grin spread wide over his cheeks.

“ _Richie_ ,” is all Eddie can think to say. And then, with a stream of tears trailing over his cheeks and down his chest, an incomprehensible string of babbling words and pleas and Richies and _sorries_.

Richie finally takes pity on him, offering a soothing smile and a quiet, “It’s okay, Eds, you’re such a good boy,” before wrapping his hand around Eddie’s neglected cock and pumping it in time with his brutal thrusts. Eddie breaks into a hiccupping sob at the sudden relief, tightening his small hands around Richie’s shoulders hard enough to bruise. With any luck, it will. “Come on, sweet boy, you’re so good. So pretty. Such a pretty little baby boy, don’t you wanna come for me? Don’t you wanna come with me fucking your tight virgin pussy?”

It’s the final question that has Eddie coming so hard he nearly blacks out, throwing his head back into the wall behind him hard enough that he worries, for a fleeting moment, he’ll give himself a concussion. Richie keeps going right through the aftershocks, still fucking Eddie hard enough to hurt, chasing his own orgasm. Eddie pulls him down into a filthy kiss that turns quickly from a sloppy slide of tongues to them breathing warmly into each other’s mouths, and, pliant from his orgasm with a sex-broken filter and a free mouth, says, “Come on, Richie. You fucked me so good, I want you to come in me, want you to come in my virgin pussy.”

And Eddie supposes the words must get to Richie as much as they got to him, because he comes into the condom almost immediately—folding Eddie’s legs up against his chest and pressing as far into him as he can, almost like he’s trying to fuck his come up into Eddie even through the barrier of the condom. They spend a few quiet minutes after just breathing each other’s air, but once Eddie feels a little less like his soul has left his body, he says, “Jesus.”

“Jesus is a fucking understatement, dude,” Richie responds. “My dick is fucking broken and so is my brain. I quite literally fucked _my_ brains out through _you_.”

“Already back to being an idiot, I see,” Eddie quips, letting his legs down slowly once Richie slides out of him. “As if your brain worked in the first place.”

Richie ties the condom and tosses it into the trash, turning back to Eddie with a beaming smile, to which Eddie returns with a flippant eye roll— _and_ a small quirk of the lips. “Eds, you wound me. I’ll have you know my brain has worked perfectly fine for the past forty-two years,” he ribs back. “With a few hangups, of course. Unfortunately, it short-circuits when hot twinks tell me to come in their pussy. It’s a known malfunction.”

Eddie blushes all the way down to his chest. “Shut _up_ , you said it first!” he shrieks, defensive.

“That I did,” Richie agrees casually. “So, you wanna get outta here? I’m staying at the Four Seasons a few miles from here and I’d _kill_ for some post-coital cuddling.”

Eddie gives him a slow once-over, eyebrows raised. He thinks about Myra at home, calling him over and over again, probably considering if she should call the police to see if he’s gone missing. All while he’s sleeping at a hotel with another man, after they’d just fucked in a bar bathroom, filthy and hard and raw. Something he knows she’d hate, something she _does_ hate—and he knows because of the way she turns her nose up at gay couples on the street like they have an incurable, highly contagious disease, snarking, “That just isn’t natural.”

“Yeah, okay,” Eddie says. Richie looks at him like he’d just said he was going to run out of here without his clothes on, streaking for the entire bar to see. “Let’s get dressed, and then we can go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for making it through the first chapter of this fic. i hope you enjoyed it! if so, i'd really love some kudos and comments. <3 also, i'll be making a playlist for this fic sometime soon, as well as one for my series crybaby bridge (if you're a reader of my other fics, as well, but probably not) which i also hope to be updating soon.
> 
> if you want to talk to me about this fic or any of my others, you can find me on tumblr at [shortcqke.tumblr.com](https://shortcqke.tumblr.com/) and on twitter (though i'm much less active there) at [@moonpeaarls](https://twitter.com/moonpeaarls). if you ever want to just chat, feel free to DM me on either of those or ask for my discord!

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr masterpost](https://shortcqke.tumblr.com/post/639523586790637568/hell-eat-me-up-it-eddie-kaspbrakrichie-tozier)


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